


Stains and Things (A Farm in Iowa Story)

by sheafrotherdon



Series: A Farm in Iowa 'Verse [41]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-30
Updated: 2012-11-30
Packaged: 2017-11-19 21:15:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/577739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheafrotherdon/pseuds/sheafrotherdon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has feelings for his couch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stains and Things (A Farm in Iowa Story)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kass](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kass/gifts).



> with thanks to dogeared for beta!

John still thinks of the couch as his couch, despite the fact that two kids and an astrophysicist have had a hand in scuffing, dirtying, and fraying its edges for a while now. He's as likely to find a toy rabbit down the back of the cushions as a treasure trove of quarters and dimes, and his favorite throw pillow – for Sunday napping – is usually the worse for wear thanks to drool or snot or smears of something mysterious. It might be the couch where they all flop to watch cartoons, and it might be the couch where the sick get to sleep, but it's John's couch, and his grandpa's couch before it – it's an heirloom of comfort that runs in the family. It's the couch where he's watched the election night returns with Rodney gripping his arm and refusing to look at the screen; it's the couch where he's sat with the blinds pulled and watched the sun sink slow and beautiful into wind-rippled corn. It's history and family and the first place he slept when he came back home, when the farm was barely his but welcomed him anyway. Stands to reason, then, that his words have fled, gone into hiding at the very idea Rodney's proposed.

John swallows. "A new couch?" he manages at last. His voice does something complicated in the middle of 'couch' and he sounds like he's thirteen again, tenor one moment, bass the next.

"It's time," Rodney says, clapping his hands together decisively. "Look at it."

John does. It's true, he supposes, that he doesn't know exactly what color the couch was in the beginning, or what color it's supposed to be now. Likewise, some might notice that the upholstery's ripped in a couple awkward places, and that two of the legs are stuck up with gum. 

"But it's my _couch_ ," he complains, and now he's regressed to seven years old and a plaintive, injured whine.

"Yes, yes, we're all aware that it's your couch," Rodney says, flapping a hand. "It's also an eyesore and a health hazard, it's lumpy, and the last time I tried to nap on it I almost got a spring in the eye."

"You did not."

Rodney sniffs at him. "Did, too."

"And you didn't mention it?" John asks incredulously.

"Well, it didn't actually happen. And I found a new spot to get comfortable on, and – this is all beside the point."

John agrees. The point is it's his couch and it's never leaving.

"The point is," Rodney continues, "that it's no good for jumping on anymore."

John blinks. "What?"

"While I was trying to corral our offspring this morning – where were you? Oh, yes, your "tractor emergency"," Rodney says, making finger quotes in the air.

"Hey, that battery was . . . doing things that were . . . bad," John offers shiftily.

"Mmhmm," Rodney offers – he's clearly not buying it. "And while left to heroically struggle with the inherently substandard plastic fastenings on two backpacks, I discover our daughter leaping on the couch – or trying to, at least. Do you know what it's like to open your mouth to tell your child that she's risking life and limb, only to have her ask why the couch doesn't let her fly anymore?" 

Somewhere in the back of John's mind is a voice that wants to ask if she jumped with a bowl of Cheerios, or without it. It's probably safer to go with something more standard. "That's wrong. I mean – that's really wrong."

"Mmhmm." Rodney's face clears and he smiles, pointing at him with two fingers. "New couch."

John sighs. "Rodney . . . "

"New couch. We can go today. Rip the band-aid right off."

"Rodney."

"Green, purple, anything you want. Except plaid. Plaid has been linked to noticeable declines in cognitive function. I read the publications," Rodney says. 

"Bullshit."

"Journal of Cognitive Functioning."

"There's no such thing."

Rodney lifts his chin pugnaciously. "Couch."

John opens his mouth, says nothing, then closes it again. He turns to look at his sad, beleaguered, hard-worn couch, then wanders the length of the living room, flops down on it and kicks his feet up on the coffee table. "We have to do it today?"

"Mmmhmm." Rodney follows him, sits down and picks up John's left hand, plays idly with each finger in turn. It's the kind of gesture that always takes the wind out of John's sails, it's so easy and fond. "You know we can make new stains, right? New memories."

John looks at him doubtfully. 

"We find one today we can start tonight," Rodney says as he links their fingers. He looks more than a little smug.

"New couch sex?" John says, perking up a little. 

"New couch sex," Rodney agrees.


End file.
